


Tell Me, Atlas

by Ellidfics



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Gen, PTSD, Talking statues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 18:38:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10973067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellidfics/pseuds/Ellidfics
Summary: It's Steve's first Christmas since waking in the 21st century.  Lonely and out of place, he finds himself dreaming of what might have been, with an unexpected guide.





	Tell Me, Atlas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fan Sidhe](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Fan+Sidhe).



> For Fan Sidhe, based on her wonderful art of [an oracular Tony](https://fanartstuffs.tumblr.com/post/160950137363/my-entry-for-the-cap-ironman-reverse-bang-my)
> 
> Go and give it some love!

_Tell me, Atlas.  
What is heavier:_

_The world or its people’s hearts?_

_Darshana Suresh_

 

His shoulder still ached.

It shouldn’t have. The battle with what Clint called “Mr. Terrorist of the Week” had been over a week ago, right as the team had been leaving the photoshoot at the Time-Life Building for their “Team of the Year” cover story, and the medics had reset the dislocated joint almost before the true pain had set in. Steve had spent an uncomfortable night with his arm taped into place and given himself two days off from sparring and the weight room, then gone back to his usual routine of exercise, meetings at SHIELD, and catching up on seven decades of history, art, literature, and popular culture. The serum had worked its magic again, or so the doctors said.

So why was his left shoulder so stiff?

“Probably slept wrong,” he murmured to himself as he walked down the hall to the elevator. He’d moved into what everyone was calling “Avengers Tower” just before Thanksgiving, when he’d finally given up on trying to make the drab little apartment SHIELD had found for him feel like something other than a grim reminder of what he’d lost. He wasn’t a big fan of Tony Stark’s taste in furniture, artwork, or window curtains, but at least everything in his suite was brand new, not second hand junk that the head shrinkers had decided was comforting solely because it was old.

“Good evening, Captain Rogers,” came JARVIS’ cultured tones, and Steve had to remind himself not to look at the ceiling. “How may I assist you?”

“Communal floor, please.” Steve waited for the elevator door to open, then stepped inside and leaned against the mirror-bright wall. He tensed at how cold the metal felt against his back, but it was only a couple of floors. He’d be fine. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure, Captain. Is there something in particular you wanted?”

“Just checking to see if there’re any leftovers before I head to church.” JARVIS must have noticed him flinch because the car was noticeably warmer by the time he’d reached his destination. “Christmas Eve Mass always attracts a crowd.”

“So it does,” said JARVIS. “Might I suggest a topcoat tonight rather than your motorcycle leathers? The current temperature is 35 degrees, with lows expected in the high 20’s. I realize that the cathedral is only a few blocks from the Tower, but it is still far enough that you might welcome the extra warmth.”

Steve rubbed at his shoulder. He'd been planning to head to St. Brigit's, not St. Patrick’s, but even on the subway it would be chilly. “That’s a good idea, JARVIS. Thanks.”

“You are most welcome,” said JARVIS, just as the door swished open. “I endeavor to give satisfaction, as one of the late Mrs. Stark’s favorite authors might have said.”

Steve managed a little half-smile at the thought of Tony’s mother, elegant and poised, settling down to read a story about Psmith or Bertie Wooster to her brilliant, restless little boy. Peggy had introduced him to P.G. Wodehouse during an air raid, when her well-loved copy of The Code of the Woosters had been the only printed material the team had had besides a week old copy of Stars and Stripes and a crumbling ASE edition of This is Your War. “I got that reference.”

There was a noticeable pause. “I trust that did not upset you, Captain. I am still not entirely familiar with the needs of anyone except Sir and Miss Potts.”

“You’re doing fine, JARVIS. Just – “

“Hey, hey, hey! Hands off the pizza rolls! Mine!” Clint’s voice, half-angry, half-laughing, carried down the hall from the kitchen. 

“Those were part of the weekly grocery order, which is bought and paid for with my ill-gotten gains,” said Tony. There was a metallic _clink_ , then a sliding sound as something shifted on the polished granite countertop. “That makes them mine, and – “

“Nuh-uh, my idea, my snacks.” There was more scuffling, and a muffled yip from the battered Heinz 57 dog Clint had dragged in from Bed-Stuy. “Good boy, Lucky! Good boy! Sic ‘em!”

“Sic ‘em? _Sic ‘em?_ I’m your landlord – “

“Yeah, like Fury gave you a choice about housing the team.”

“ – and your lease – “

“Which doesn’t exist.”

“- says nothing about pets – “

“Lucky’s my companion, not a pet, it says so right on that thing Bruce printed out from the Internet about animal rights – 

“ – so effective immediately, your rent is doubled - ”

“What rent?

“ – and your security deposit is forfeit.” There was another sliding sound, followed by a human yelp and some muffled cursing. “Damn it, that baking sheet should have cooled by now. JARVIS, make a note about researching burn-proof cookware. I’m sick of having to ice my hands all the time.”

Steve shook his head. Tony and Clint had begun arguing about the kitchen, food, and cooking the day Clint had moved in, coffee maker and dog in tow, and they hadn’t stopped. It was all in good fun, especially since neither of them could cook a lick, and their attempts at scratch cooking were a big reason why Bruce and Natasha had basically taken over meal prep. 

“That’s because you don’t use oven mitts like a normal person,” said Clint in a surprisingly reasonable tone. “See these? Nice and insulated, only $5 at the dollar store so you can buy a set for every day of the week.”

“Dollar store? Where did you find one of those in Manhattan?” There was the sound of running water as Steve neared the doorway. “It used to be the five and dime, as Cap never ceases to - “

“Lucky, no! Leave the pizza rolls – damn it!“

“I told you to keep the mutt in your suite. He's - 

A volley of barks sounded, partially masked by a bright, loud crash and a violent burst of swearing.

“ – sicle, Christ, what a - “

“So much for - “

“ - should have kept him out - ice - “

Steve went rigid in mid-stride. The Tower, the friendly chaos, the barking dog, all were gone - 

_”Who in this room is a) wearing a spangly costume and b) not of use?”_

_Steve's jaw tightened so much it was a miracle he didn't crack a tooth. “Just find the cube,” he snapped, and strode out the door. He stood outside for a moment, unsure of what to do, when a voice both new and achingly familiar sounded faintly through the door._

_”That's the guy my dad couldn't shut up about? They should have kept him in the ice!”_

Ice. 

Cold.

Dark.

Filling his lungs, his eyes, slowing his heart and crushing his ribs and - 

“Keep him out of here unless he's being useful, all right?”

Spangly costume.

Not of use.

“Steve?”

He came to himself with a violent shudder as Tony, one hand smeared with aloe juice, the other clutching Clint's dog by the collar, stuck his head into the hall. “What?”

“How long have you been there?” Tony gave the dog a pointed look, then frowned in Steve's general direction. “This fleabag just caused a mess, so I wouldn’t come - “

“Lucky doesn't have fleas,” said Clint, joining him. His t-shirt was rumpled and his hair stuck straight up in front. “Five minutes and we'll have more pizza rolls. You want?”

“No.” The faint, gnawing hunger that had driven him to the kitchen was gone. “I - “ 

_”Who is a) wearing a spangly costume - “_

_Dancing monkey, they'd given it to him, he didn't have a choice._

_“ - and b) not of use?”_

_Not of use._

_Useless._

_Capsicle_

_Ice ice ice -_

“I – no - don't let me get in your way,” he said, the words far higher pitched than he'd intended, and was back in the elevator and slamming the button for his floor before either man could say a word. 

He all but sprinted into his suite once the elevator opened. He swallowed, slammed the door shut, and all but sprained his thumb activating the DNA lock. The room was supposed to be set for a comfortable 72 degrees but all Steve could feel was the bitter cold of the wind over Greenland as the Valkyrie began her death dive into the dazzling white. He bit back a curse that was half-scream, staggered to the bed, and slid down beside it, wrapped in the spread and the quilts, until the shivering stopped. 

_Cold burning his mouth, his eyes, his skin_

“PTSD” they called it now, even though it was just another name for shell shock or battle fatigue. 

Not that this had anything to do with battles. 

_blood slowing freezing_

_heart_

_slow_

_stop_

There was a muffled sound from the door, almost as if someone were knocking and calling his name. Steve shook his head and pressed his face into the smooth, fine sheets that smelled faintly of lavender. It was close enough to the sachets Mrs. Barnes had tucked into her linen closet that he almost recoiled, but having to deal with whomever had decided to visit would be worse. 

Eventually the noise stopped, and he was able to let the memories go, one by one. The bedclothes that had kept him warm became unbearably heavy and hot, and he unpeeled them enough to reach for the bedside clock to check the time. 

He hissed as he read the glowing white numbers: a few minutes before 2200. Even on his Harley, even running, it was far too late to get down to Alphabet City in time for Mass, even if he’d been dressed and ready to go. He took a deep breath – how had he lost over an hour? - shoved the blankets aside, and stood up. 

“I guess it’s St. Patrick's after all,” he said, and took an extra moment to steady himself before checking the closet for something he could wear to church. At least he’d remembered to shower after his workout.

Even with that head start, it was still after 2230 when he finished trimming his nails, brushing his teeth, and giving himself a quick shave. His suit, a navy blue chalk stripe in what they now called “athletic cut” instead of “big and tall,” hung on the door of his closet, along with a plain white shirt and a silk tie in a subdued dark print. He had other clothing he liked better – he’d never been much for business clothes unless he had a job interview – but his mother would have reared up out of her grave and given him a talking to if he’d so much as joked about wearing anything but a proper suit to church.

He dressed, combed his hair, and slipped on a pair of black wingtips that were only slightly stiff. For a moment he considered wearing a hat, but he'd always hated them, even in the Army, so he left the snap brim he'd picked up a few months ago in its box. St. Patrick's was less than fifteen minutes on foot. He'd be fine.

The hall was quiet and dark when he uncoded the lock to his room, slipped into his coat, and stepped out of his quarters. He pulled on his gloves, checked his watch – 2305, cutting it close but there should still be standing room even if the Cardinal was officiating – and punched the _down_ button.

“Lobby, JARVIS,” he said.

“Of course.” JARVIS waited as the mechanism whirred to life and they began their descent. “Should I inform Sir and the other Avengers that you are leaving the Tower? Agent Barton is attempting to trim a Christmas tree, Agent Romanov and Ms. Potts are preparing to retire for the night, Dr. Banner and Sir are arguing about the Large Hadron Collider, and Prince Thor is conducting a video call with Dr. Foster.”

“Sounds like they’re busy.” Steve straightened his shoulders as the elevator opened onto the Tower’s pedestrian concourse. Would any of them even notice he was gone? 

Would any of them care?

“Don’t bother, JARVIS,” he said, and entered the revolving door onto Fifth Avenue.

 

The daytime hordes of office workers, tourists, and commuters had thinned out due to the hour, but it was still New York: busy, bustling, and full of people. Steve wasn’t surprised – visitors straining to get a look at the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree were nothing new – but having to shove his way through knots of people acting as if the sidewalk were their own front yard did nothing to improve his mood. By the time he neared St. Patrick’s, the crowd was so thick and and the gawkers so oblivious that he’d given up on excusing himself as he muscled his way toward the church. 

“Watch it, dude!” exclaimed a young man wearing nothing but jeans, a t-shirt, and a hooded windbreaker as Steve cut between him and a knot of matronly women striving to snap one of those selfie things to text to their grandchildren. “Nearly busted my skateboard!”

“Tell it to Sweeney,” Steve snapped back. “And put on a coat. You wanna get pneumonia?”

“Fuck you, asshole,” said the kid. He flipped Steve the bird, then hopped on his skateboard and ripped down a side street before Steve could react. One of the women squealed, while another started talking about how rude and mean everyone in New York was, why couldn’t they be like people out in Blue Ball, next year they’d stay home and not waste their money. 

Steve opened his mouth, then shut it. It was almost midnight, almost Christmas, and he had no business ruining an innocent tourist’s holiday just because he was a in a bad mood. “Get it together, Rogers,” he murmured, and hurried to the last corner – 

Where a line of people waiting to get into St. Patrick’s stretched nearly halfway down the block. 

For a few seconds he considered turning around and heading back to the Tower, or at least to the next nearest church; St. Vartan’s wasn’t Catholic but at least it was a church, and that would have to be enough unless he could find some place to hear Mass tomorrow. It would be jammed in St. Patrick’s, worshipers packed like sardines, and he might not even be able to get up to the Communion rail. But it wasn’t as if St. Vartan’s wouldn’t be crowded, too.

He glanced both ways, then crossed the street and took his place in the line. Two women, one scarcely more than a girl, the other in a full length fur coat, edged forward. A man in a tastefully cut chesterfield gave him a brief smile and put his arm about the woman in mink. “Did you bring your ticket, honey? It’s going to be packed.”

She smiled and leaned back against him. “Right in my purse, just like I do every year. After the time your brother forgot and we had to go home – “

“Excuse, ma’am.” Steve gave the family his best “buy war bonds for America!” smile. “Did I hear you say something about tickets? To get into a church service?”

The woman’s perfectly groomed brows arched up in surprise. “It’s Midnight Mass at St. Patrick’s. Of course you need tickets. Half the tourists in New York would show up to gawk if they didn’t have a way to limit how many people are allowed inside.”

Tickets? Tourists? Even during the war they hadn’t tried to keep soldiers from going to church, not when every time you went might be the last, and – 

“Young man? Are you all right?” said the man in the chesterfield. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Steve swallowed. “Sorry,” he managed. “I’ve been out of town for a while. In the Army. I didn’t know – “

The couple looked at each other, then at Steve. The man’s face softened, and he nodded to his wife, who reached into her purse. “I was in Desert Storm. I know what you mean. Here, I can wait, you take my ticket, I’ll go get a cup of coffee – “

“No, no.” The compassion in the stranger’s voice, the sudden sympathy in his wife’s eyes as she held out a slip of paper, was more than Steve could bear. “I couldn’t. You – you go with your family. I’ll find somewhere else.”

“Son, it’s all right – “

“Merry Christmas,” Steve managed, and fled back into the crowd.

How long he wandered he wasn’t sure. Rockefeller Center was a mob scene, even this late, and he gave up on trying to get within spitting distance of the tree about the time Mass would have started up. He waited an extra five minutes, just to be sure, then worked his way to the street to give the beautiful old building a final look before heading back to the Tower. Maybe he’d see if Thor was up and could loan him some of that Asgardian mead that actually gave him a buzz.

The crowd had thinned out enough by the time he reached the great statue of Atlas on Fifth that he could actually see the doors to the cathedral across the street. They were shut, of course, and if he concentrated he could just make out the roar of the great organ as the choir began processing down the center aisle. The service would in English, not Latin, but if he closed his eyes he could see it so clearly, the singers in their white cassocks and purple robes, the bishops and priests and the Cardinal in their glittering vestments, candles and music and warmth and light – 

A sudden buzz at his hip jerked him out of his imagination. He pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and blinked at the notification of a text from aestark@avengers.stark.biz. He tapped the icon, frowning slightly. What was Tony doing up so late?

_Where r u cap? U're missing ALL THE FUN_

Steve pushed down the urge to send a snotty reply, carefully tapped out _St P’s_ , and hit _send_. The reply was almost immediate: _sorry forgot u wld b @ church, g’nite_

_Not in church. No ticket._

_WHAT._

A gust of wind blew down the street right into his eyes, making them water. Steve blew out a breath. 

_2 full. No place 4 me._

An emoticon of a shocked face swiveled back and forth on the screen. _Did u tell them who u r?_

_No. Wouldn’t help._

_Hang on. Ill call -_

_NO!_ Steve stared at the phone in shock. Did Tony really think he’d have them throw someone out to make room for him? _Im OK. Going 4 walk._

_Come home, we’re up and –_

“What home?” Steve said, ignoring the sudden burn of salt on his cheeks. His voice was all but unrecognizable, even to himself. “Like you give a damn.”

Another text notification appeared. Steve deleted it, set his jaw, and entered _Y do U even care?_. He hit _send_ before he could stop himself, then turned off the phone and shoved it into the pocket of his coat. A taxi lumbered past, slowly cruising for fares despite the hour. 

Steve slumped against the cold granite plinth that held up the statue of Atlas holding up the world. He’d watched, fascinated, as the workmen set it into place, never dreaming that it or he would still be unchanged eighty years later. 

This time he could not deny the tears as it all came crashing down: loss, grief, all the things he’d had and would never have again. He had just enough presence of mind to stumble behind the statue before someone recognized him and snapped a picture of the great Captain America acting like he was drunk, even though the last time alcohol had effected him was before most of the city was even born.

A burst of steam from a sidewalk grate enveloped him. He dashed away the tears, leaning into the warmth for a few seconds before it vanished into the night. He pressed his burning cheek against the stone and shuddered, chilled to the bone by something that was not the wind.

“I should have stayed in the ice. Can’t even get into church on Christmas Eve, what’s the point – “

“That’s a very good question, young man,” said a strong, deep voice from somewhere above him. Steve reflexively jerked away from the plinth and fell into a defensive stance, every muscle suddenly tense. What was going on?

There was a faint creak of moving metal, and Steve found himself staring up – and up – and _up_ \- at the great statue of Atlas. The bronze eyes were open and fixed directly on him, while a faint, almost amused smile played about the sculpted lips.

Steve blinked, then carefully lowered his hands. “Sorry about that. I don’t usually talk to statues.”

Atlas chuckled, shifting the armillary sphere on his back as the sidewalk rumbled slightly. “Most people don’t. Just think of me as another god, like your friend Thor. We aren’t all that different.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Steve. Pointing out that Thor was actually from another planet, not really a god, was likely a bad idea. “I guess it’s lonely out here.”

“Lonely? Far from it,” said Atlas with another rumbling laugh. “The greatest city of your country is spread out before me. Millionaires, janitors, young mothers and old men – they all walk past me, and I hear what they say. Even on Olympus itself I was never so surrounded by life as I am today.”

Another gust of steam wafted up from below. Steve cautiously took a step backwards. “I never would have guessed that.”

“There’s much you haven’t considered, my friend.” Atlas leaned closer, knees grinding slightly as his metal joints flexed and moved. “The world and your place in it, for one.”

“What?”

“Ah, don’t deny it. The weight of responsibility, the grief at your losses – they weigh far too heavy on your shoulders, broad as they are. You question whether you should even walk about the world at all, or if you should have stayed frozen where neither Zeus nor Hades has sway.”

Steve set his jaw. “If Thor said that, I’d tell him to mind his own business. I know my place – “

“And yet not five minutes ago you wondered what the point of it all was.” Atlas shook his head. “You little know how crucial you are to the world, young warrior, or to those you call friend. Believe me, both would be poorer were you still caught between life and death.” 

“Right.” Someone – an usher? – stepped out of St. Patrick’s for a breath of air. Steve started toward him to see if they somehow could find space for one more. “This has been really interesting, but I should go.”

“Not yet,” said Atlas. There was the groan of metal on metal as he took the whole weight of the world on one arm and leaned down to touch Steve’s forehead. “You have much to learn.”

Steve froze in place, vision suddenly flickering white and gold and blinding red. “I – “

“Heed your guide,” said Atlas, and the city was gone.

 

Steve woke in darkness, warm and deep and still. He lay unmoving for a moment as his senses adjusted to the lack of light, then carefully worked each limb until he was sure he was uninjured. Gravel dug into his cheek, and the air smelled of ozone and sweat and oil. A faint, sparking screech of metal on metal sounded occasionally, but the sound was muffled, as if behind a massive wall.

Wherever he was, it wasn’t Rockefeller Center. Worse, he was completely nude.

Slowly he rolled into a kneeling position. He’d learned not to panic at waking up in a strange place – last spring had taught him the dangers of _that_ \- but what had happened to his clothes? Why didn’t his shoulder hurt from landing on rough ground? How had he gone from Fifth Avenue to a place that sounded and smelled like an unused subway tunnel? 

What was going on?

“Oh ho! There you are,” said a familiar voice. There was a burst of golden light that made him wince. “I was wondering when you'd get here.”

Steve lowered the arm he'd instinctively thrown across his eyes. Tony Stark sat – no, _hovered_ \- on a stone seat about ten feet in front of him. He wore a long, saffron colored length of fabric wound about his body and draped over his head, and was twiddling a branch of something green and frond-like in one neatly manicured hand. Steam that smelled like the aftermath of a thunderstorm rose from a fissure in the tracks and gently ruffled his intentionally messy hair.

“Tony? What the hell are you doing here?”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “That's not the question, young padawan.”

“Pada - “ Steve pulled his legs underneath him to stand. “Why are you talking about Thai food? We're in a subway tunnel and - “

“Thai food?” Tony snorted hard enough to make his frond rustle. “That's pad thai. 'Padawan's' from a movie we clearly need to watch once you've had your important life lesson or whatever this is.” 

“Life - “ Steve stopped as he remembered Atlas' words: _you have much to learn._ “Hell. You're my guide?”

“Looks like it, and no, I don't know why your subconscious chose me to do the whole 'Clarence needs to get his wings' thing.” Tony shrugged and slipped off his seat. He was almost Steve's height here, and still glowing slightly. “I also have no idea why you're naked, but hey, not going to question it. Your dream quest thing, your nudity.”

Steve flushed as he realized that Tony was giving his body a frankly appreciative up-and-down. Army life had cured him of whatever self-consciousness being poked and prodded by doctors hadn't, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy being checked out. “If it's my dream, guess it's up to me to change things.”

Tony cocked his head as an equally flowing white robe swirled into place around Steve's body. “Not quite as good a view, but now I can see why that art student at the Met last week wanted you to pose.”

Steve flushed. The “art student” had been an unnervingly intense middle aged donor at a September Foundation gala in the Greco-Roman galleries who had spent several uncomfortable minutes loudly comparing Steve to the nude warriors, then asked him to model at a private life drawing class. Of course Christine Everhart and her camera crew had gotten the whole thing on film, and of course the Ones had decided that “Captain America being embarrassed in public” was a dandy way to end their late night newscast. 

“Isn’t that what you call ‘hitting on someone’ these days? Or is there some other term I haven’t learned yet?” 

Tony frowned. “You’re not wrong about what went down. Why do you think I sent Thor over? That story about Loki fooling Zeus into thinking he was a girl was the best distraction I’ve seen since the time Rhodey dropped a tank on a statue of some dictator in Madripoor.”

Another screech sounded from somewhere in the distance. Steve glanced up at the ceiling, then down the tracks. The light from the fissure was enough for a normal person to see the platform in the distance, the switches and warning lights and the third rail. “Yeah, that was swell. I always wanted to know about Loki’s private parts.”

“Uh huh,” said Tony after a few seconds. He cocked his head again and held out the frond. “I think you're supposed to grab this so I can whisk you off to learn what you're supposed to learn. Still not sure what that is since you're, y'know, Captain America and the hope of the nation, but - “

Steve couldn't help curling his lip. “Yeah, like you believe that.”

“What?” Tony frowned. “I know I've got a mouth, but come on. There are whole careers built on studying your influence on the war and American life, beginning with you being the most admired American from 1952 to 1973 inclusive even though everyone thought you were dead. Without you we wouldn't have stood a chance back in May, you - “

“That's not what you said to Clint,” Steve said before he could stop himself, and Tony actually retreated a step. He looked genuinely shocked, not ironic.

“Clint? What does he have to do with this? I thought it was Nat who deprogrammed him or - “

“Just give me the damn branch!” Steve snarled, and grabbed it near the tip. The hard, glossy leaves shivered, the ozone smell of the tunnel spiked, and there was a sudden flash of darkness - 

 

They stood on the flight deck of the helicarrier.

Steve drew in a shocked breath as a blast of cold wind swept the flight deck. The runway was pockmarked from what looked like a series of massive explosions, the black surface half-melted in places. A damage control party aimed a fire hose at the smoldering wreck of a quinjet, the smoke whirling about an ascending medevac copter with stretchers – or were they body bags? - strapped safely to its landing skis. The serial number on the bridge was all but hidden by a blast mark from an energy weapon of some sort. Maria Hill, half her face covered by bloody gauze, leaned heavily on a female medic’s shoulder as the two women picked their way toward a triage station.

“What is this?“ Steve gestured at the carnage. It was clearly spring, not winter – what was going on? “When did this happen?”

“Right after the Chitauri attack,” said Tony. His saffron robe whipped about his legs in the briny wind. “You’re still in the ice, which means no one directing traffic on the ground. Fury had Hill relay orders over the comm link, at least until those space whale things showed up. Without you - ”

“Me?” Steve watched as half a dozen airmen dumped the ruined plane off the flight deck into New York harbor. “I spent my time on the ground. You and Thor were the air support. I didn’t – “

“Remember what I said about not being soldiers?” Tony shook his head. “None of us, not even Thor, thought about frying the Chitauri while they were still _in_ the portal until it was almost too late. By the time Fury told his gun crews to start firing at least five or six more leviathans had come through, and guess where a couple of them headed?”

A burst of angry shouting made both men turn. Steve's fists clenched as General Ross, an honor guard of Rangers in full body armor fanned about behind him, stood at rigid attention before a visibly enraged Nick Fury. Two of the Rangers stepped forward to claim a dark-haired man on a stretcher. A medic started to protest, only to be pushed aside by another soldier with a laser rifle.

“That's Bruce on the ground,” said Tony. His jaw twitched as the Rangers loaded an unconscious Dr. Banner onto a sleek black transport. “Ross has wanted himself a super soldier for years and Brucie's the closest thing we had before you showed up. Now he's got what he wanted most, never mind that without Bruce I was a dead man and the city was probably toast.”

“Ross wasn't even there.” Steve took a step forward, even though the rational part of his brain knew he and Tony had to be invisible. “He was at Fort Hamilton during the Chitauri attack.”

“Because he was so busy getting all pimped out to meet the great Captain America he didn't leave his quarters until everything was over but the shouting.” Tony winced as Bruce revived enough to realize he was a captive, started to turn green, then went limp as one of Ross's men deployed a spray injector loaded with enough drugs to knock out an elephant. “Remember, right after the attack the President pardoned Bruce for whatever the Hulk had done to the city, both then and when he broke Harlem a couple years ago. Without you being a nice shiny distraction, Ross had all the time he needed to arrest Bruce before I could call Ellis to get the order signed. Don't even ask what he's planned, because believe me, it ain't pretty.”

Ross had shown up just at dusk on the day of the attack, long after the battle was over and the cleanup was underway. His Class A's had been dust-free, his shoes shined to a mirror gloss, the mass of ribbons and badges and medals on the left breast of his jacket exactly where the regs said they should be. He'd given Steve, who still hadn’t managed to change out of his filthy, charred uniform, a hearty handshake and welcomed him back to active duty, but Steve had heard him muttering about something about “dressing like a clown” to his aide after the spiel about how honored he was to meet America's greatest hero. Maria Hill had told him later that Ross expected his own men to hit the showers and pretty themselves up right after a mission, not stand guard over the wounded or check for hot spots.

“Glory hound,” he muttered, which earned him a short, sharp laugh.

“You don't know the half of it,” said Tony. He watched as Ross and his detail followed Bruce onto the transport. “Also? All joking aside, if you haven’t filed your DD 214 by now, do it as soon as the personnel office at Fort Hamilton opens on the 26th. I’ve heard rumors about him trying to get you transferred from the Avengers to his command. If that happens I’m not sure even Ellis will be able to get you out before Ross lets his boys go to town.“

“Yeah, I got that.” Steve couldn’t help a shiver at the thought of what Ross and his pet scientists would do to him if they could. The after-action report about Mr. Green had almost made him sick to his stomach, and that was before he’d read the appendix about what was left of Emil Blonsky. “Are we done? I get it, I was supposed to be here for the attack so I should stop complaining and count my blessings.”

The frond tickled as Tony draped it across Steve’s shoulder and chest. “Sorry, but not yet. You knew Capra, so yeah, you need to see Potterville before the Powers That Be let you go back to being depressed.”

“Capra? You mean the guy with the Motion Picture Unit?” Steve brushed the frond aside, or started to. It was oddly warm to the touch. “He directed me in a couple of shorts, but – “ 

“Damn. I forgot we haven’t actually shown you _It’s A Wonderful Life_ yet, no wonder you’re bewildered,” Tony said. He rolled his eyes and pointed at the sky. “Sloppy, guys. Very sloppy. Next time do _A Christmas Carol_ or something else that was actually around prior to 1945, ‘kay?”

“Tony. Whatever you’re doing – “

There was a soft creak of metal, as if something huge had shifted, followed by a roll of thunder underpinned by a faint, unmistakable _clang_. Tony made a face and grabbed Steve’s hand with surprisingly strong fingers “Next life lesson, and just as an aside, if you ever do this again can we go with Prometheus? He’s much more my speed, plus we could take a spin around the rink at Rockefeller Center before they recycle the tree or whatever they do with it these days. They have hot cocoa, not that it’s all that good, but hey, chocolate, you know?“

Steve hadn’t been skating in years, not since he’d broken his tailbone out at Prospect Park while Bucky’s little sister laughed at how wobbly his ankles were. Going now, when he was strong and fit and could keep up, might be fun, especially if he held Tony to his promise about hot chocolate. There was nothing better for keeping warm on a cold day, even when all he had was powdered milk, the emergency chocolate from his K-rats, and water heated on the exhaust manifold of a Jeep to keep the cold at bay – 

_Cold._

_Freezing._

_Ice._

_“ - should have kept him in the – “_

Or not.

“Yeah, ice skating. Sounds perfect for a capsicle like me,” he said, and tried to tell himself that Tony didn’t look bewildered for a second or two. “Didn’t you say something about the next life lesson?”

“As you wish,” Tony said, and waved the frond – 

 

They stood inside a funeral home somewhere in the Midwest as a whole family – mother, father, little boy who couldn’t have been more than ten – was waked. Steve blanched as he recognized the out of towners who’d driven straight into the attack, then blundered into an alley. “These people – I killed a Chitauri who was trying to get them. No one else saw them?”

“We were still doing the headless chicken thing,” Tony murmured. The boy was young enough that a sobbing woman who seemed to be his aunt was burying him in his Little League uniform. “Plus, you were the only one who thought about getting civilians into the subway tunnels, at least till the Mayor got involved. Park Avenue was a shooting gallery by then, and don’t even ask about the café under the viaduct.”

Steve closed his eyes, remembering the pretty waitress who’d served him the day before the attack. She’d been kind, even when he’d made a fool of himself talking about radios. “How many, Tony?”

Tony hesitated. “More than you want to know,” he said at last. “Without you, the cops tried to hold off the Chitauri themselves instead of evacuating civilians, so bye-bye most of New York’s finest. No one set a perimeter, either, which meant the attack spread all the way up Manhattan. I think they finally managed to stop it around Fort Tryon Park.”

The scene shifted, and they hovered above the Hudson, the Palisades to their rear, a battered ruin that looked like a castle below. Steve could not hold back a gasp as he recognized the shattered stone.

“They got the Cloisters? I – I used to sketch there when I was in school, while they were building it. They didn’t care how long I stayed.” He reached down as if he could touch a crumbling parapet. “Half my portfolio was drawings of the stonework. Oh God – “

“Most of the collection can be restored, or so they say.” Tony gestured, and they stood in what had probably been a gallery as conservationists and museum employees triaged the damage. One young man was all but in tears as he gathered up what was left of an illuminated manuscript, while a middle aged woman gently sponged soot and ash from an altarpiece. “Rebuilding the Guggenheim, though – that’ll take years even if someone raises the money. Ditto the American Wing at the Met.”

Steve pressed his forehead to a knight’s sarcophagus. The blackened granite was still intact, but half the exterior wall was gone. “Thor lead armies. He should have known.”

“Space armies,” said Tony, reaching out to grip his good shoulder, and Steve found himself clutching at the other man’s hand. “Plus, every Asgardian knows how to fight and use some magic. It literally never occurred to him that New York was eight million civilians and no fortifications.”

“Mother Mary.” Steve As much as this hurt, he needed to see the rest. “Don’t tell me. They sent an advance scout to Washington and took out the Capitol?”

There was a rustle as Tony held out the frond. “Good guess, but not quite. One of their whale things did break away and head south, presumably toward DC. Fortunately the Air Force scrambled a couple of fighters to keep it busy until Rhodey got there and finished it off. It didn’t even reach Delaware, thank God or whatever.” 

Two people conservator hurried past with a burned chunk of wool that might have been one of the _Unicorn Tapestries._ Steve shuddered. Maybe he was a soldier now, but he was still an artist deep down. “What’s next? The Chrysler Building? The Statue of Liberty?”

“Worse,” said Tony, and shook the frond – 

 

_Natasha, eyes swollen from tears, cradling a limp Hawkeye in her arms, the gun he’d used to end Loki’s influence still clutched in his hand –_

_A memorial service at St. John the Divine for the police who’d tried to fight an alien army with nightsticks and Glocks –_

_President Ellis addressing the nation from the Oval Office as he announced the diversion of most of the defense budget to “developing a force that will take us to our enemies before the next threat appears“ –_

_Thousand of New Yorkers sleeping in Central Park because their homes were uninhabitable –_

_Fury standing defiantly before the World Security Council as a middle aged blond man ordered his arrest, snarling that if they had approved Project Deep Freeze they would have had their field commander and none of this would have happened –_

_Headlines about the suicide rate spiking across the world as doomsday cults preached that the end times were coming -_

_Worried doctors from the CDC discussing the appearance of a new disease in the New York area that was on the verge of becoming a pandemic -_

_Tony himself passed out at his desk, a nearly empty bottle of single malt overturned on the federal indictment for culpable negligence and failure to deliver equipment to the armed forces after he shut down the weapons division of his company -_

“They went after you for the attack? Why? You tried to stop it!”

“Loki was on Asgard. Clint was dead.” Tony’s voice was so flat and neutral it was all but unrecognizable. “Someone had to take the blame, and that was me.”

“But – “

“I was the one who boasted a couple of years ago about ‘privatizing world peace,’ then told a Senate committee to kiss my ass.” The saffron wrap slid off Tony’s hair as he slowly bowed his head. “Guess you could say I asked for that one.”

“Asked for it? _Asked_ for it?” Steve did not realize he was shouting until he saw Tony flinch. “It was _Loki’s_ fault, not yours or Clint’s or anyone else’s! He brought the army, he attacked us! Blaming either of you is crazy!” 

Tony pushed fall of fabric back into place. The light from the arc reactor gave his face an unearthly pallor. “Who was left? We don’t even know what planet the Chitauri are from, or how Loki met them. I was supposed to keep the world safe. I didn’t. QED.”

“QE nothing!” Steve gestured at dream-Tony and his whiskey. “You’re the smartest man I know. Even if I hadn’t been there you still would have found a way to beat those bastards. This is bull, one person wouldn’t make that much of a difference – “

“You think that? After seeing up close and personal what a couple of dictators did to Europe? Really?” Tony demanded. His eyes were hard, his voice harsh. “Ever heard of a pyrrhic victory, Mr. Super Soldier? That’s what we have if Fury doesn’t find you in time. You’re the key, the heart and soul of the team – “

“Yeah? That’s what you think?” Steve yelled. The shout echoed off the subway walls, and it took a moment for him to realize they were back in the tunnel. “Then why’d you tell Clint I was better off in the ice?”

There was no sound for much, much too long. Tony’s jaw worked as he visibly fought for control. “I never said that to Clint. Not once. The only time I came close was when Loki’s glowstick – “

Steve bared his teeth as the pain lanced through his shoulder again. “Like hell you didn’t! You told Clint I should have stayed in the ice when he was feeding his dog! I was on my way to my room and I heard you, so don’t even think about lying!”

“Clint – wait, wait.” Tony held up both hands, palms out. The frond and the saffron robe were gone, replaced by a worn MIT sweatshirt and a pair of jeans with the right knee torn out. “Is that what this is all about? What you think you heard?”

“I don’t _think_ I heard anything. I was standing right outside the kitchen door.” Steve threw the long end of his toga over his shoulder. The touch of the soft white wool eased the dull, itchy throb that matched the beat of his heart. “You said I was better off in the ice. Just like you did on the helicarrier.”

A train in the next tunnel tumbled past with a metallic _swwhhhhhhhhh_ from the wheels. “Is that what you – oh my God. You poor bastard, I can’t believe – “ Tony groaned and let out a laugh was more exasperation than anything else.

“Steve. We weren’t talking about you. Clint’s dog had just knocked an ice cube tray and a package of those frozen fruit things Bruce likes off the island onto the floor, right into the the mutt’s water dish. I was telling him he should have kept Lucky in his room. Nothing more.”

_“ – sicle, Christ, what a - “_

_“So much for - “_

_“ - should have kept him out - ice - “_

“What?” Steve’s robe disappeared in a swish of cloth. Warm, ozone-heavy steam rose from the fissure to cover his nakedness. “You – “

“We were talking about the dog, Steve, not you. I swear.” Tony placed his hands on Steve’s shoulders, carefully avoiding the sore spot. “You’re the heart of the team and have been from the start, whether you know it or not. Thor tries, he really does, and so does Nat, and me, and the others, but without you? We’re five freelancers pretending to work together and failing pretty badly You’re the difference whether you know it or not.”

The plea in those dark, brilliant eyes was almost too much to bear. Steve had to remember to breathe. “I didn’t – I assumed – “

“Steve. Listen to me.” Tony gave him a tiny shake. “The Avengers work because of you. That’s the truth. I may be the brains and Thor’s the brawn, but without you leading the way, we’re not half as good at anything, including saving the world.” He paused. 

“I hate to admit it, but that goes for me, too. You keep me from going off the rails, even more than Pepper. So don’t think we’d be better off if you were still defying global warming somewhere near Greenland. It’s not true, so don’t even start.”

Steve closed his eyes. He wanted to believe Tony so badly it hurt, but how? “Half the time I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Any of you. I’m trying to keep up, but I just – I - “

“That’s why we’re a team, you big sap,” said Tony as the steam thickened to an opaque cloud. “ _Ask_ if you don’t understand instead of brooding. One of us’ll answer, I promise.”

“That’s all?” It was so simple, put like that. Why had he thought it was so hard? 

“That’s all,” said Tony, as the world went dark around them - 

 

“Steve? Where – oh thank God. I was afraid you’d been mugged.”

Steve came awake with a jerk. Tony, in a dark topcoat and a Russian-style hat that would have looked better on Natasha, knelt beside him on the sidewalk. 

“Tony? What – “ A cab rattled past, full of merrymakers on their way home from a party. “What time is it?”

Tony shot his left hand out and checked his wrist. “Quarter of one on the 25th, so Merry Christmas and ho ho ho.” He held out a stainless steel travel mug with vaguely sweet steam rising from the lid. 

“Here. This’ll warm you up.”

Steve cautiously pushed himself to a sitting position. He’d somehow ended up sprawled behind the statue of Atlas across from St. Patrick’s, cheek pressed against the cold, smooth granite. “Thanks. Coffee?”

“Cocoa.” Tony’s hands were warm even through his elegant leather gloves. Steve, shivering now, breathed deep of the rich scent of chocolate and sugar and milk before taking his first sip. “Clint made it because he felt guilty about Lucky the Chaos Hound wrecking the kitchen and I thought you might like some. It’s not bad.”

“It’s a lot better than that.” The cocoa was exactly the right temperature to warm without scalding, and Steve found himself smiling despite the cold and damp. “I needed that.”

“I figured after that last text of yours. Being shut out of church on Christmas can’t be much fun.” Tony reclaimed the mug, stood and held out his free hand to Steve. “Need help? I saw you favoring your left while you were sparring with Nat this afternoon.”

Normally Steve would have shrugged and refused, but not tonight. He nodded, gripped Tony’s lower arm, and let the smaller man pull him to his feet. “Thanks. Guess I nodded off waiting to see if I could sneak in.”

Tony handed him the mug, then pulled out his muffler and carefully wrapped it about Steve’s neck. It was a soft, saffron-gold wool with a deep green leaf pattern woven along the edges. “Here. You need this more than I do. Why aren’t you wearing a hat?”

“I don’t much like them.” The scarf was still warm from contact with Tony’s flesh, still smelled of his cologne. Steve took another drink to avoid thinking about how good it felt, and what that might mean. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’d better be. Clint’ll whine if he can’t show you that _Dog Cops_ thing he’s binge-watching, and I don’t even want to think about how many ways Natasha would kill me if I let anything happen to you.” Tony pantomimed cutting his throat, breaking into a grin as Steve managed a shaky laugh. “Home? You need to know about the Yule Log before Thor fixates on it tomorrow morning.”

“Yule log?” Steve finished his cocoa and followed Tony out onto Fifth Avenue. He could go to church in the morning. “I thought the Viking invented those.” 

“Not this one, oh no,” said Tony. He walked briskly to the corner and waited for the pedestrian signal. “This one is – well, it’s an old New York custom. Not quite from your time, but not new.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Steve. He breathed deep of the night air, let the noise and the pace of the city wash over him. “Tell me more.”

“Well. It seems that back in the 60's someone had the bright idea of filming a burningYule log and showing it on Christmas morning so all the people who didn’t have a fireplace could still get into the holiday spirit – “

A wisp of steam rose from the tunnels underneath Atlas as the lights changed and the two men started across the street. Neither was in range to smell the faint trace of ozone in the smoke, or see the tiny hint of a smile play about the great statue’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes:
> 
> First and foremost, my thanks to Fan Sidhe, for the wonderful art that inspired me. I love her interpretation of Tony, the oracle/guide, and the whole story flowed from that.
> 
> Second, for those unfamiliar with some of the places and people mentioned in this story:
> 
> [Atlas, the sculpture outside Rockefeller Center](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/57/Rockefeller_center_Atlas.JPG). Done in the Art Deco style of the 1930's and 1940's, he's the brainchild of sculptor Lee Lawrie and has kept the watch on Fifth Avenue since 1937.
> 
> [St. Patrick's is the home church of the Archdiocese of New York.](https://saintpatrickscathedral.org/) It dates from 1879, and yes, they do require tickets for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.
> 
> [The Cloisters](http://www.metmuseum.org/visit/met-cloisters) is the magnificent gift of John D. Rockefeller to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It's composed of four ancient Spanish and French monasteries, and houses one of the richest collections of medieval sculpture and artifacts in the United States. Among their treasures are the [Tres Riches Heures](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tr%C3%A8s_Riches_Heures_du_Duc_de_Berry) of the Duc de Berry, the [Unicorn Tapestries](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hunt_of_the_Unicorn), and the [Merode Altarpiece](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M%C3%A9rode_Altarpiece)
> 
> The family Steve rescued is from one of the deleted scenes in _The Avengers_.
> 
> Frank Capra, director of the 1946 classic _It's a Wonderful Life_ , did indeed work for the Motion Picture Unit in Hollywood during World War II. Whether he ever met or directed Steve Rogers is, of course, unrecorded by history.


End file.
